


The Winds of Change

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, Friendship, Humor, Injury Recovery, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Pre-World War 1, Retirement, Romance, Translation Available, World War I, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: On the eve of the Great War two men reunite, sharing their joy at being together again. Yet amidst their celebrations Watson discovers Holmes’ life-changing injury - will Holmes ever be able to play the violin again? Watson is determined to assist in the healing process, using his own experience with his personal war wound.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 37
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	The Winds of Change

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ветер перемен](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23169943) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> This story is set on the tail-end of _His Last Bow_ with Holmes and Watson reuniting after two long years apart. The author has taken the liberty of canon divergence, where Watson - the unreliable narrator - actually retired to Sussex with Holmes. There are brief mentions of the oncoming Great War, but no war scenes.
> 
>  **natrix_natrix** I ran with your prompt of Holmes suffering nerve damage in his hand due to his undercover work. I hope I have managed to deliver!
> 
> \---
> 
> [Little Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn) translated _The Winds of Change_ into Russian. :)   
> You can find _The Winds of Change_ published into Russian here:  
> https://ficbook.net/readfic/9159170 ( Russian fanfiction website )  
> and here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23169943

* * *

_Private papers of John H. Watson, M.D._

_4th August 1914_

I must set down my thoughts while everything is fresh and before we have to once more part ways - though _this_ time I am determined it will not be two years of silence. Then we were duty bound and Holmes willingly granted his presence, but that made the requisite silence no less painful.

The hour is dreadfully early, not quite striking three in the morning. We are in my old practice, long sold to my good friend Dr Anstruther but far more private than a hotel or rented lodgings.

To the world Holmes retired to Sussex alone and I abide in my practice in London, possibly with a wife, and seldom any word from my oldest companion. An unfortunately much needed misdirection to keep us safe from prying and suspicious eyes. The world is not so forgiving and I still recall Mr Wilde's trial vividly.

In comparison to the clatter and clamour of London, the worrying wealth of police acquaintances and Mycroft with his requests, our snug cottage in the downs is peaceful.

Holmes is retired, but the occasional advice he will offer if pressed and free from studying his bees.

The folk value our privacy and while pleasant and welcoming, joyful for company, they are too busy to entertain fancies which could be hazardous for our health. 

The general populace are merely happy to have a spare elderly doctor knocking about in times of need and happily return such a service by respecting our privacy. I must smile when I write such a label. Heaven forbid if Holmes hears such an epithet. He stills thinks of me as the same young man who rushes into danger and adventure.

Love is a miraculous force, even when Holmes grumbles a bit at my teasing. Yet on the 2nd of August I did feel twenty years younger upon sighting my darling Sherlock.

To see Holmes after two long years of waiting, fearing and hoping was a blessed relief. Receiving my dear friend's telegram was a boon I cannot describe, beyond likening it to the first ever sunrise on a once barren world regaining life.

Yet I am digressing.

Holmes is lying peacefully in our bed, exhausted as of old after a particularly draining case. Indeed, I dare fancy a two year perilous operation as a secret agent with no Watson at his side, certainly counts for 'draining'.

His bandaged right hand lies upon the coverlet. It is a sight to cause my heart to clench.

When I first saw Holmes in Harwich I barely restrained myself from leaping from the car to embrace him. By the dazzling light in those pale grey eyes I knew the desire was shared with equal fervour.

It was only when we were safe, with Von Bork stashed in the car and Martha safely on her way, that we briefly retired to the house.

There we indulged in an all too quick reunion as the car journey would be far too long. Two years had passed slowly, a length of time too long and strenuous even for my beloved detective and his restraint.

"Sherlock," for in private it is Sherlock. Sparingly admittedly, for we must guard ourselves against slip ups in public.

I raised a hand to touch that awful goatee and couldn't help the burn of tears at the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away.

" _John_ ," and oh, the reverence in Sherlock's voice, the veritable storm in those once clear eyes undid my composure.

I kissed Sherlock fiercely, closing the gap between our bodies and relishing the still strong and slim steely frame against my own larger one. Lips familiar yet unfamiliar due to time and a goatee moved upon mine.

The tickly sensation of our respective moustache and goatee had us laughing quietly as we kissed. I savoured Holmes' taste, the way he pressed harder against me, his heat and his thinness. No phantom of my dreams here, but reality.

Dizzy with such gladness at Holmes' presence I nearly missed the manner in which my husband in all but name clutched at me. His left hand was a firm but gentle presence on the back of my neck, his calloused fingers seeking the flesh under my collar and rubbing in fiendish delight.

His right hand...ah. His right hand was a weak pressure on the small of my back. A memory floated back as did my previous worry, then submerged by my delight in capturing Von Bork and speaking to Holmes once more.

Rather reluctantly pulling away from our kiss, I witnessed with satisfaction Sherlock's dishevelled state. I am certain I was in the same mess and would require adjusting before we re-joined our prisoner.

I dropped my hand to cradle Holmes' right hand in both of mine and brought it up to examine.

"Oh Sherlock, what happened?" I tenderly brushed a thumb over Holmes' skin, seeing properly now the ugly scar that carved a path over the back of my companion's delicate yet powerful hand.

Holmes sighed. The sigh was so weary and full of desolation my blood ran cold.

"Sherlock?"

A tired and forlorn expression fixed itself where before jubilation and love had paraded.

"An incident," he said wearily. He gazed down and flexed his hand with a grimace.

"During my time in America - a year ago to be precise - I was slinking around the dockyards when I made a grave error. No, do not fret, John, for here I am before you."

Sherlock inhaled and pressed on, face grey with memory.

"Fortunately, it was my only grave error, but still...I landed myself in a pickle. My foot slipped on a grimy stretch of the dock and the resulting clatter of boxes being knocked over had the men I was observing chase after me. Only my experience and wits saved me from the three younger men. Even so, one of the scoundrels managed to slash the back of my hand with a knife."

I was trembling with fear and rage. If I could only find those men I would teach them a lesson!

Sherlock met my gaze and his lips twitched.

"Good old Watson! A man of action as always." He swallowed and the most dreadful broken whisper issued from my mercurial detective.

"I was lucky that my wound was not infected, but the doctor I visited held bad news. After X-rays and sewing the gash shut…"

My Sherlock’s breath rattled and tears gathered. I forced my grip to remain soft and not to tighten, but my body was alive with my nerves.

"My dear fellow…the doctor said a nerve was damaged and it would be unlikely that I would ever play the violin again or hold a sword in my right hand."

The desolation in my love's voice and eyes undid me. I barely held my composure, but for Holmes' sake I tried and just about succeeded.

I tenderly kissed his afflicted hand, then pressed his hand to my cheek. Gazing up into wet eyes and into an ocean's worth of agony, I resolved to help in any way I could.

"My dear Sherlock."

I did not need to say anything else for Sherlock understood.

We stayed for a few more heartbeats in our pose, thinking, grieving and rejoicing, then we shifted to prepare ourselves for our duty – currently tied up in the car.

Once outside in the coolish air Holmes was able to steady himself, to utter words that chilled me as much as they offered some fragile hope.

***

Our journey was silent apart from our prisoner. The night of the 2nd was long nonetheless and we were terribly grateful for my old friend, Anstruther, setting us up.

When I awoke early in the afternoon on the 3rd of August, the doctor within me rose to the occasion and I undertook some preparations. Only when I was ready did I rouse Holmes. He was understandably morose, dwelling on his hand, and I feared one of his sombre moods, so I hastily bullied him to eat.

My nattering and general nudging of food items, pouring the tea and chatting about our Sussex neighbours soon drew a smile from my companion. His silent smile and flash of good humour on that face I adore - even now, after more than thirty years of acquaintance; the Crow’s feet at the corner of those expressive eyes, the crease at the corner of his mouth, and the strong chin (thankfully now shorn of his goatee) trembling with laughter which eventually burst forth.

“John,” he sighed as we finished and he carefully used his hands to tidy his appearance with that cat’s love of cleanliness Holmes harbours. Yet he was obviously favouring the right so I elected to strike to the heart of the matter.

I was Sherlock’s man of action after all.

“Sherlock, please come with me to the couch.” 

“I know that look, John! Once I called you the stormy petrel of crime, should I be concerned?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Only if you do not do as I say.”

Holmes rose a little stiffly, his rheumatism affecting him after sitting for so long. My shoulder had fared no better, but for once I was thrilled for it would aid my demonstration. I walked towards a small side table and removed the cloth covering my preparations. The afternoon sun was warming the room and glinted on two glass bottles, one with a thick honey coloured liquid.

I awkwardly stripped off my coat and waistcoat, my shoulder protesting as my old wound stretched. 

“Not that I mind the show,” remarked Holmes with that tone of mischief I loved and dreaded depending on the circumstances, “but from the materials you have squirrelled away on that table, I suspect an intimate affair is not on the books?”

“Really, Holmes, you are incorrigible.”

Those kissable lips curved into a genuine smile. “I thought that was what you loved about me, Watson? My man of action.”

I snorted. “Yet you accuse me of reading those old fashioned yellow paperbacks.”

I carefully picked up a jug which had been kept hot by the stove and poured the water into the dish. Next I added lavender to the water and a fragrant scent tickled my nose, relaxing my senses. Tucking the bottle with the honey hued liquid into my trouser pocket, I picked up a towel and placed it over my left arm and then took up the bowl and joined Holmes on the couch.

“Dip your hands into the water, Holmes,” I instructed. 

Overcome by curiosity, my ever inquisitive detective, (already devoid of his jacket), undid his cuffs, the left one with some difficulty, and rolled up his sleeves. His waistcoat remained. 

Slender hands, browned from time in the sun and calloused from years of service and tending beehives slipped into hot water. Holmes sighed and relaxed as the lavender scented water eased the stiffness in his joints as well as his anxious mind.

Judging that the bowl was secure on my lap, I pulled free the bottle and unstopped it.

“”Hmmm!” exclaimed Holmes. “Surely that is your massage oil?”

“Excellent deduction, Sherlock,” I teased. An eye roll was my response along with an affectionate huff.

“Sherlock,” I paused and steadied my breath. What I had to say was serious and Sherlock deserved my full proper attention to the matter.

Holmes quieted, an expectant hush falling over us - with the sun streaming through the lace curtains it was a peculiar juxtaposition. So light and airy! Yet our happiness was mingled with expectation not merely by what I had to reveal, but by the tension in Europe and Holmes’ part in attempting to strengthen Britain’s chances.

“Sherlock,” I repeated.

I gazed fully into the face of the man I esteemed, admired, was often exasperated by and loved most dearly. “For all of our acquaintance, I have dealt with my war injury and I daresay I have learnt a thing or two about managing my recalcitrant shoulder, and even moreso with what is possible and impossible. By that I mean, my dear fellow, the possibility of such wounds healing and being able to use the limb again.”

Holmes nodded so I continued.

“Here, dry your hands on the towel.”

Holmes did so, desperate hope warring with caution in his eyes.

“Please note, Sherlock, that I am not deriding the diagnosis of a fellow professional colleague, nor do I wish to instil false hope.” 

I poured my massage oil into one cupped hand, then, balancing the bottle between my knees, I rubbed my palms together. The excess was applied liberally to Holmes’ hands, most particularly his right.

“No, rather I wish to stress the fact that I have experience in dealing with debilitating wounds, including nerve damage.”

I glanced up and caught the same desperate hope from earlier, yet when Holmes spoke his voice was strained by the effort of tempering this wild yearning.

“Are you saying I could possibly play the violin again one day?”

I began massaging Holmes’ right hand, mindful of the scar and the tissue directly surrounding the jagged line. A slight hiss was Holmes’ only indication he was in pain. I resolutely continued even as my heart wept.

“Perhaps, there are methods to ease stiff muscles and aid in their recovery. Nerve damage is a greater challenge, but there has been some progress with massages, carefully structured exercises of the limb in question, and patience.”

I applied more pressure and Holmes inhaled sharply before allowing his breath to escape in a slow exhale I recognised from his breathing exercises. He gradually closed his eyes and fell into a light mediation, sensing how to assist me in my endeavour.

When Holmes spoke his voice was calm, even if his lips shook ever so slightly at the end.

“I will be a most apt pupil, John.”

“Ah, for once the great Sherlock Holmes shall be a willing patient!” 

“Yet I am incorrigible?” remarked Holmes in the same calm fashion, but his eyes opened to show deep affection and humour. How I had missed such looks! I responded with my own passionate glance, a promise for later that had Holmes shiver and close his eyes.

“Two old men just as impossible as when we were young things,” I joked.

The oil was slick and comforting, both our hands warm from Holmes soaking his hands in the bowl and my efforts in coaxing life back in his wounded muscles. For a few minutes silence reigned, the tense hush replaced by a lighter atmosphere, tinged with anxious hope.

“While we will be parted I expect you to massage your right hand - seek the stablemaster in town once you are situated back in our cottage. He suffers from rheumatism and is used to massaging oil into his joints. While you are too, it may be a tad difficult one handed. However, prior to the massage, soak your hands in hot water or even wrap them in towels soaked in hot water.”

Holmes nodded to show he understood so I stopped my massage with a flutter of anticipation. Grey eyes blinked open and focused on me curiously. 

“As for exercises I have some ideas, but it will be painful,” I admitted.

Warm oily hands touched my face and I was arrested by the fierce glare Sherlock pinned me with. “I am no stranger to pain, John, especially if it is for my benefit. Do not fret. I shall abide by your rules.”

His voice softened and he blinked back a sudden gleaming wetness. “I do love you, John. I trust my Watson and will submit to your whims in this, just as you have submitted to mine so many times in the past.”

Surely one would perish from so much love suffusing their being? Or, if not perish, have that love pour out and fill the world? I swallowed heavily and leant forward for a quick kiss which rapidly turned long and slow.

We broke apart breathing heavily, our emotions plain ere my logical detective summoned his faculties and steered us back on course.

“Anything after the exercises, my man of action?”

Suppressing a chuckle, I instead replaced the stopper in the bottle that had somehow survived our passion. Gathering the bowl, towel and bottle I returned them to the table and washed my hands in another bowl. I selected the second bottle and went over to Holmes.

“Eau de Cologne.” I answered Holmes’ inquisitive stares.

“I will demonstrate some exercises, but it will take us working together to decide upon the best course. Naturally we will have to tailor them depending upon your progress and needs, but I have sketched down some ideas while you slept.”

“In the two hours you were awake?” asked Holmes, not incredulously, (for the man always complained I underscored my own talents) but with deep pleasure.

“While driving the car I indulged in turning over some ideas. Sorry to shatter your illusions.”

“Never!” declared Holmes.

“Well then, shall we begin? The Eau de Cologne is for afterwards. I always find a splash is refreshing. Perhaps a little old fashioned now, but still part of my bag of tricks.”

My dear Sherlock nodded with enthusiasm, his sombre mood lifted, replaced by a tentative hope and a grim resolution to do his best.

So we spent the next hour, after which we lazed about, luxuriating in each other’s closeness and company. We were ever aware of the building tension and the cold east wind readying to blow across our land.

* * *

_4th August 1914, evening_

The cold wind came late in the night as I wrote. A telegram arrived from Mycroft to inform me of Germany’s incursion into Belgium, who had refused to allow them passage to France. I sat re-reading the message for a while, grateful Mycroft had not utilised the new-fangled phone Anstruther had installed downstairs - mindful as was Mycroft’s want in not causing a disturbance.

I allowed Holmes to rest, for I had bandaged his hand to ensure his scar - tender after our ministrations - rest without irritation from his pyjamas or the coverlet.

When he awoke I shared the news and not long after that Britain declared war on Germany, in adherence to the _1839 Treaty of London._ Subsequently, that dreadful East Wind now swept through our formally cosy sitting room.

We shared a few moments together before we parted ways - Holmes to his brother Mycroft, I to the --- Hospital* where they were gathering doctors and nurses for the war effort.

*Not even in my private notes shall I refer to which hospital I was ushered to, for it was by Mycroft’s machinations I was sent there; and as it transpired, for duties and missions he would need people he trusted beyond all doubt.

* * *

_24th December 1918_

_An elderly man walks carefully up a path towards a snow laden cottage. The path has been cleared by the women in the village yet he holds on firmly to his stick. Behind him follows the stablemaster with a wicked grin, carrying his luggage._

_Their breaths show white in the frosty air._

_As the elderly man reaches the door, he looks up and a pale, tired face, worn by a ghastly war, stares at a door he had dreamed about for the last four years. Hasty meetings in whichever hole they simultaneously found themselves in was hardly the same as this good green door. The weariness fades under an anticipatorily smile, full of excitement and a little trepidation._

_Then, as he pushes a key into the lock - a key kept safe through much hardship - he hears the most wonderful sound in the world after Holmes’ voice._

_The sound of a violin playing Silent Night. Nearly overwhelmed with a desperate joy and hope, the elderly man unlocks the door and rushes in, sudden vigour warming his cold limbs and the dreary pall the war had cast._

_There, in the living room, stands Holmes by a roaring fire and a Christmas Tree bursting with colourful decorations. In his hands is his precious violin. Grey eyes meet his, full of wonder and joy so profound that the elderly man is consumed by the same joy._

_“John!”_

_“Sherlock,” whispers the man, reverently and lovingly._

_The stablemaster quietly deposits the doctor’s luggage and retreats, delighted that the two men were once more reunited - and permanently if he and the village had anything to say about matters._

_As the stablemaster returned to his horse (one of the few allowed to remain when the majority of horses were conscripted for the war effort) he catches the faint laughter, sobs and the sheer loving happiness that spills out into the cold Christmas night._

_Heaving himself into his seat and nudging his horse to take them home he laughs as he hears the lively jig played by a man who had gradually regained limited use of his hand, sufficient to play the odd tune for a short period._

_Perfect for welcoming home absent doctors._

_~ Finis ~_

**Author's Note:**

> * For some quick and easy information on the Great War:  
> https://www.britannica.com/event/World-War-I
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_I
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_London_(1839)
> 
> * The X-ray was well established by 1914, having been discovered since 1895 by Wilhelm Röntgen and were used during World War 1 by doctors/surgeons to assist in treating wounded soldiers. Initially the dosage of X-rays and the length of time required to take the picture resulted in burns and hair loss, but eventually this was managed. Taking X-rays became safer and more widespread:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X-ray#Discovery_by_R%C3%B6ntgen
> 
> https://www.onlineradiologyschools.org/the-history-of-x-ray-technology.html
> 
> https://www.nde-ed.org/EducationResources/CommunityCollege/Radiography/Introduction/history.htm 
> 
> https://www.dw.com/en/x-ray-vision-an-accidental-discovery-that-revolutionized-medicine/a-18833060 
> 
> * I took some liberty regarding the healing of Holmes’ injured hand – apologies to any nurses, doctors or medical professionals reading this! Please take it in the same humour of the long tradition of authors using the obliging “brain fever” for their characters ;) The massage oil and hot water / warmth was inspired from coaxing painful joints or muscles and Eau de Cologne…well, it can be quite refreshing and pleasant to smell.
> 
> * Lastly, but not least, my humble thanks to my beta, **smallhobbit** , who ensured that the grammar, spelling and consistency was all accounted for in my fic!


End file.
